


Flowers and Stew

by greenapricot



Series: Lewis and Endeavour prompt fills [7]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: M/M, S7 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:47:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22795777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: The first thing that strikes Morse as odd when he walks through his front door is the smell of something floral mingling with the usual aroma of wallpaper stripper and cigarette smoke.
Relationships: Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse
Series: Lewis and Endeavour prompt fills [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1240481
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	Flowers and Stew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iloveyoudie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/gifts).



> For iloveyoudie for the tumblr meme prompt: Max/Morse, flowers. Also inspired by a convo we had a couple days ago about Morse’s blue coat and its absence so far in S7.

The first thing that strikes Morse as odd when he walks through his front door is the smell of something floral mingling with the usual aroma of wallpaper stripper and cigarette smoke. 

The second is the sounds from the kitchen; chopping, sizzling, and a faint humming. The particular quality of the humming is familiar but not the tune. 

The third is the bloody great bouquet of flowers, in an elaborate crystal vase that he definitely does not own, sitting on the wooden box next to his record player in the unfinished living room. 

Morse smiles in spite of himself. 

In the kitchen, the smell of the flowers is overpowered by the scent of onions and garlic and braised meat. 

“Thought you were shot of me until I was finished with my nonsense,” Morse says as he steps through the kitchen door. 

Max is at the stove with his back to the door, stirring something in a pot much larger than any of the scant few pots Morse owns. 

“I am,” Max says. 

He doesn’t sound quite as peeved as he did the day he held Morse’s blue check coat hostage and told him to come back for it when he was finished with said nonsense. Morse had wanted to tell Max that he was finished, that Ludo and Violetta didn’t mean anything to him compared to what Max does, that he wouldn’t see them again. But as much as Max’s importance is a fact that Morse has come to accept, if not acknowledge—steady and true and so much more than just a passing fancy—he couldn’t make himself say it. He still can’t despite the fact that he misses the warmth of the coat that Max persuaded him to buy.

“Why are you here then?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing for the past hour,” Max replies, throwing some already chopped green onions into the pot, then wiping his hands on his blue apron. 

“The flowers?” 

“Garden trimmings,” Max says. “Destined for the bin otherwise.” He turns around and fixes Morse with a disapproving glare that’s directly in conflict with the fact that he seems to be cooking Morse some sort of stew. 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Morse says, feeling the tingle of embarrassment creep up his spine. 

“That’s the trouble with you, isn’t it? For such a good detective, you’re awfully dense.”

Morse runs his hand through the hair on the back of his neck. It’s getting long again. He’s not sure he cares. “I’m sorry?”

“Not sorry enough you’re not.” Max turns back to the stove, switches off the burner and puts the lid on the pot. “Eat some of this now, and once it’s cooled put it in the fridge. It’ll keep for a week or so but I would hope you’ll have eaten it all before then.”

Max takes off his apron, shakes it out, folds it, and stuffs it in the tote bag that’s sitting on the edge of the worktop. He then goes to the sink and washes off a knife which Morse doesn’t recognise, wraps it in a floral patterned kitchen towel that Morse has definitely seen in Max’s kitchen, and places it in the bag as well. 

“Why all this, though?” 

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.” Max picks up the bag and grabs his coat off the back of the kitchen chair. “You know where to find me when you’re ready.” He brushes past Morse in the doorway in a way that can only be deliberate. 

If Max is here cooking for him and bringing him flowers to make him feel guilty it’s working. 

“Max,” Morse calls after him as he makes his way down the hallway toward the front door. 

Max stops and turns around, fixing Morse with one of his too knowing looks. “Don’t tell me things that aren’t true to try and make yourself feel better. It’s—” he hesitates and Morse takes a half a step toward him. He could tell Max he’s done with them and he could mean it. He could force himself to mean it. “Well, it’s not fine, but it is what it is. I know you, Morse.”

“I don’t—” Morse stops himself, not entirely sure what he’s going to say. 

“You never do,” Max says as if he knows Morse’s mind better than Morse does. Maybe he does when it comes to this. 

“Thank you.” Morse blurts out. “For— for the stew.”

Max looks him up and down, considering, but doesn’t say anything more, just nods then turns and opens the door, walking out into the growing dusk. From where Morse is standing, midway between the kitchen and living room, the scent of flowers mingles with the smell of stew wafting from the kitchen and turns them both into something else entirely. 

Morse sits down on the stairs after Max shuts the door behind him and lights a cigarette. 

_____


End file.
